


A Suitable Present

by Stakebait



Series: Uncovered and other stories [10]
Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 02:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/pseuds/Stakebait
Summary: Peter follows Neal's tracking data and finds a surprise.





	

Peter, Diana, and Jones gathered in Peter's office, Neal Caffrey conspicuously absent.

“No Neal today?” Jones asked.

“Not on this one,” Peter confirmed. “It's about Neal, actually. The marshals called. They've noticed an unusual pattern in his tracking data.”

“What's he been doing?” Diana asked.

“We don't know,” said Peter. “But he's been doing a hell of a lot of it at 50 East 57th Street.”

“And what else is at 50 East 57th Street?” Diana asked.

“Some of the most expensive retail real estate in the world,” Peter answered.

“Peter,” Jones said, “you don't look worried.”

“I'm not,” Peter said. He met Jones' eyes. “Look, I know you're afraid I'm—compromised. But I swear, I haven't suddenly developed rose colored glasses where Neal is concerned. If this were a collection of Derains, I would be watching his GPS in real time. Or if Mozzie, or Alex, or any of his friends were in trouble—but they're not. This place doesn't even sell jewels, just clothes. And if there's one thing Neal already has plenty of, it's clothes. The only thing there to tempt him is money, and if Neal were going to risk his freedom—” not to mention his relationship with Peter—“for money, I think he'd go for something more than the takings in the till at the end of the night, no matter how fancy the store is.”

Jones nodded. “So then what are we doing here?” 

“Hedging our bets,” Peter said simply, because 'covering our asses' did not sound professional enough. “We do this by the book, exactly the way we'd do it if Neal weren't—if we weren't.”

Okay, that wasn't a sentence, but just because Jones and Diana both knew didn't make it any easier for Peter to talk about—especially in the office, and especially with the two of them together.

“I don't want to give the marshals, or anyone, room to complain that I'm cutting corners or pulling punches. Jones, you're here to keep me honest.”

Jones looked happier at that, as Peter had figured he might. He nodded. “I can do that.”

“What do I do, boss?” Diana asked.

“You,” said Peter, “are going to be our distraction.”

“Hot damn,” said Diana, “I get to pull a Caffrey.”

Peter nodded. “You'll need special equipment.” From a tote bag beside him, he pulled his secret weapon—he'd 'borrowed' one of Caffrey's hats.

*******************

As a distraction, it turned out Diana was a total bust. Peter must be behind the times again, or maybe British people were different. None of the old men tailors, or whatever they were called, at Turnbull & Asser batted an eye or lifted an eyebrow at the thought of fitting a curvacious lesbian with a men's three-piece suit. 

She did, however, manage to absorb the energies of at least five staff members, between measurements, fabric swatches, shirts, shoes, and accessories—a pocket square, for god's sake? 

For someone who had never been the least bit butch, she looked to be having far too much fun—Peter hoped they were going to get out of this one without a major hit to his discretionary budget. And he seriously doubted Neal was getting the hat back.

Peter did manage to fade into the background while Diana claimed center stage, desultorily thumbing through racks of tweeds and jerking his chin for Jones to follow. They made it to an employees-only entrance and found the fire stairs, though Peter suspected this was less due to their own stealth than to the store's security not actually giving a shit about people who were going deeper into the building with empty hands instead of out of it with stuff they hadn't paid for.

Caffrey's tracking data led them to the third floor, where a broad, unmarked metal door led to what appeared to be an old industrial loft.

“Gun,” said Jones succinctly as they stood outside the closed door.

“Seriously? You know Neal hates guns,” Peter objected.

“Seriously. You have no way of knowing if Caffrey's the only one in that room, or if he's in charge of whatever going on in there. I'm here to keep you honest. Be honest: if you thought this was a thing, you'd have your weapon in hand when you broke that door down.”

Peter sighed, and drew his sidearm. “Fine. Gun. But I still think the biggest threat behind that door is gonna be someone stabbing us with a needle.”

******************

The door, anticlimactically, was unlocked. They burst through anyway, yelling 'FBI!' As soon as they entered somebody shot them both—with a giant camera.

“Peter,” said Neal, looking chagrined. “What are you doing here?”

Caffrey was standing on a pile of sand, in front of a green screen. Bright natural light streamed in from a large skylight overhead, but nonetheless various warm spotlights targeted odd angles of the scene. Neal was wearing a suit—sort of—but not one of Byron's. Actually he was only wearing the pants, and even they were partially unfastened to show the V-cut of his abs, pointing down into his (mercifully covered) crotch. And of course, a hat, tilted down to shadow his face.

Neal also appeared to be wearing two emaciated young women, one of whom was garbed in a tailored men's dress shirt, belted with a tie, and the other, the matching jacket to Caffrey's pants, over a pushup bra. It was just barely long enough to leave the question of what she was wearing on the bottom half to the imagination. At his feet was a sleeping leopard.

“Agent Burke,” said a rather intense looking young man in extremely fashionable eyeglasses, who Peter was positive he had never met before, “are you here for your first fitting?”

Peter put the gun away, and gestured at Jones, behind him, to do likewise. Whatever was going on here—and fuck if Peter knew the answer to that question—it did not require bullets.

“Neal,” said Peter, and to his dismay his voice sounded more plaintive than minatory, “why is there a leopard?”

“Did you come here just to ask me that?” Neal demanded, pushing back the hat so he could look Peter in the face.

“I did now!” said Peter. “There's a leopard!”

“It represents untamed sensuality,” said the man with the camera.

“It's drugged to the gills,” said one of the women. “But it likes to be scritched behind the ears.”

“Is it your leopard?” Peter asked her, trying not to look at the many parts of her that were not covered by menswear.

“It's Jerry's,” she answered, pointing at a young man in the corner, wearing cargo pants and a Poi Dogs Pondering t-shirt, reading National Geographic, and ignoring them all. “At least, he's the handler. Union rules.” 

Peter liked Jerry already. He was fully clothed, he was not talking about untamed sensuality, he was not taking pictures of Peter looking ridiculous, and apparently he also had his own leopard. What was not to like?

“What the fuck is going on here?” Peter asked Neal, hoping against hope for a comprehensible answer this time.

He actually got one, but not from Caffrey. “Mr. Caffrey still has two more photoshoots to complete to match the value of your suit, counting this one,” the guy with the glasses explained. “I apologize, but it's important that Simone complete his work before the light changes. We do need the print campaign to be ready for the spring line showing. If you could come downstairs, our staff would be delighted to begin the measurement process in the meantime.”

“Jones, go back to the office,” Peter said. “Take Diana. Don't let her buy anything that costs more than a month's rent.”

“But I have to keep you honest,” Jones said, his lips twitching.

“Perhaps,” said Simone, “Mr. Jones would care to join the shoot?”

“I'm gone,” said Jones.

*******************

Downstairs, away from Caffrey and his coterie, Peter rubbed his furrowed forehead. “Lemme get this straight,” he said. “Neal is modeling for you. In exchange for a suit for... me?”

“Not one from our ready to wear collection,” the man corrected. “A bespoke suit,” he said, reverently, “Fully custom, made from scratch to your precise measure. We retain a paper pattern for each and every client should you require additional items in future. While this is our New York flagship—” somehow he managed to make a gesture around three full floors of pricey East Side real estate look self-deprecating—“our proper headquarters is on Saville Row. London,” he added, in response to Peter's blank look. 

“Do I even want to know how much something like this would cost?” Peter asked.

“If it weren't a barter arrangement? Approximately six thousand dollars,” the man said, “depending on the materials chosen and certain design decisions. Naturally we wouldn't dream of placing restrictions on your selections.”

Peter had a coughing fit. As far as he was concerned, the words “six thousand dollars” and “suit” did not belong in the same sentence, let alone one that also contained “Peter Burke.”

“And Neal has been doing this for how long?”

“Five weeks.”

Peter sighed. “I guess this is pretty important to him. And I just spoiled the surprise.” He looked at glasses guy. “Let Neal pick the fabric and—stuff. He's the one with opinions.” When it came to suits, hoo boy, did Caffrey have opinions. 

Peter squared his shoulders. “I guess we better do this,” he said. “Do you have a beer? I'm not used to strange men with tape measures so up close and personal.”

The man shook his head apologetically. “Would you care for a cognac?” he asked instead.

“Never mind.”

***********************

After the longest 45 minutes of Peter's life, he was convinced the tailors had measured every single part of his anatomy except his earlobes and his dick, and he wasn't too sure about the latter. This suit was going to fit him like a glove. 

Peter had never particularly wanted a suit that fit like a glove. He was fine with suits that fit like a suit.

He also didn't see where the fuck he was ever going to wear the damned thing. He was pretty sure that Hughes would notice him wearing the value of a good used car into the office, and that kind of thing tended to trigger an audit, in a white collar agent especially. And while Peter had nothing to hide in the financial department, while he was boning his CI in defiance of every known regulation on the subject seemed like a really bad time to attract any kind of additional scrutiny.

Peter sighed again. He couldn't fool himself—the tailors were done, at least with his part, though they were too polite, or at least too British, to kick him out. Or maybe they were hoping he would buy some overpriced ties. He wasn't leaving because he was waiting for Caffrey, and he was waiting for Caffrey because he wanted to apologize. And if that meant wearing the damned suit, he was going to wear the damned suit, even if he had to wear it to the opera, god help him.

Finally, Neal appeared, wearing his own suit, with all the pieces, and the fly fastened and everything. Peter held his breath, wondering how pissed Neal was gonna be that he hadn't trusted him, _again_ , and this time he was proven not only to be doing nothing wrong, but to be doing something nice for Peter that Peter had fucked up....

Neal fell into step with Peter with the ease of long practice as they exited the store and began to stride down the sidewalk. He cocked his head.

“What's wrong?” he asked. 

Peter led them to a nearby open plaza with a splashing fountain. This was not a conversation for the office. He sat down on a bench and tugged Neal's arm to join him.

“I didn't think you were stealing anything,” Peter said abruptly.

“I know,” Neal said.

“I didn't have a choice—Wait, you know? How?”

“Come on, Peter,” said Neal. “You didn't even bring backup. How many uniforms did you bring when you arrested me?”

“Which time?”

“Either.”

“At least 20,” Peter admitted.

“And I heard you talking to Jones through the door. That metal echoes like crazy.”

“So that's why no one looked surprised,” Peter said, half to himself. “I'm sorry I messed up your present for me,” Peter added sheepishly.

Neal shrugged. “Don't worry about it. I'd have had to tell you soon for the fittings. And it's really a present for me anyway. I want to see you in a really good suit.”

At least he was self-aware. Peter grinned. “Oh, I suspect I'll get some fringe benefits out of the deal.”

“So why didn't you have a choice?” Neal asked curiously.

“The marshals noticed a new pattern in your tracking data,” Peter explained.

Now Neal wore the upset look Peter had expected earlier. 

“The marshals—we’re screwed, Peter. I was so focused on Hughes, and Jones, I never even thought about the marshals analyzing my tracking data.”

“You haven’t been out of bounds,” Peter said, confused.

“I’ve been at your place,” Neal said urgently.

“You’ve been coming to my place for years,” Peter pointed out. “They’re used to it.”

“All night? All _weekend_? Hughes is no fool, but he’s got skin in this game too—our arrest and conviction rate makes him look great at budget time, and having to admit he was wrong to take a chance on me—“

“—on us—” interpolated Peter.

“Wouldn’t do him any favors politically,” Neal continued. “I know he’d call us on the carpet regardless if he felt he had to. But he won't go looking for reasons. The marshals would do it for shits and giggles. Don’t give me that crap about us all being on the same team now, Peter. You know they hold a grudge against me because they never caught me.”

Peter’s voice had finally gone thoughtful. “And me because I did.”

“Exactly. We made them look stupid. They'd love to return the favor.” Neal relaxed ever so slightly. They were still screwed, but at least he and Peter were on the same page.

“We have to get ahead of this,” Neal continued, thinking furiously. “Maybe… you could have me transferred.”

“To who? Jones and Diana aren’t senior enough.”

Neal scrubbed a distracted hand through his hair. “Rice, I guess? Or we know Kramer wants me, god help me.”

“No.” Peter’s tone brooked no argument. “I can’t help what Hughes does, but if I find out you made any such suggestion, I’ll…” he scrambled mentally for a suitable disincentive. “I won’t let you come for a month.”

A sudden hitch in Neal’s breath and dilation of his pupils indicated that this threat was not having the desired effect—or at least not only the desired effect.

“Really?!?” Peter asked, incredulously.

“Apparently?” Neal sounded as surprised by his own reaction as Peter was.

"We'll talk about it later," Peter promised. "Much later. And further away from the office."

Neal nodded fervently.

"We could hack the tracking data," Peter said.

"No," said Neal, flatly. It wasn't a protest or an objection, it was a decision, the kind that usually came from Peter. That kind of maturity looked good on him, Peter thought privately, but now was not the time.

"You've done it before," Peter prodded.

"I sent a false signal in real time," said Neal. "You're talking about stealing data that's already stored on a U.S. marshals' server, that they've already looked at. Even if we take away their proof, they'll know they're being messed around, and they'll double down. That's not just a transfer or a demotion, Peter, you could go to jail. That's not an option. I'll tell Hughes I want to serve out my sentence first."

Amazingly, Peter smiled his rarest, wickedest smile. "You sure?" he said. "We could be cellmates."

Neal groaned and his breath went ragged. Peter didn't have to glance down at Neal's lap to know his reaction, but he did anyway.

" _Peter_ ," Neal said imploringly, "Stop that. I have to think!"

"You have to breathe," Peter corrected. He wished he could reach out and cup Neal's cheek, but this pocket park was just too close to the FBI building, and agents on their lunch hours could be passing at any moment. He settled for touching his shoulder.

"You're right—this could be a problem. But it still might not be. If we go charging in to fix what isn't broken, we could bring down the crisis we're trying to prevent. "

Neal nodded. "Like a Greek tragedy."

"Or a comedy of errors. For now, it's a waiting game. We'll come up with some contingency plans—I can't believe I'm saying this, but maybe we could ask Mozzie to help?"

Neal smiled. "He'd love to. Even if he won't admit it."

"And in the meantime, we'll just have to do overnights at your place. I don't have an anklet."

"I can live with that," said Neal. Belatedly, a thought occurred to him. "You do have an E-Z Pass."

"I can always take the subway," said Peter. He held up a hand to forestall Neal's next comment, "yes, with a Metro card bought for cash from a machine. This is not my first time at the rodeo. But it takes a warrant to get that data anyway," said Peter. "Cell tower pings are a bigger issue."

"Elizabeth's not going to like it if you leave your phone at home," said Neal, "Not to mention the Bureau."

"I could leave a burner at your place," Peter suggested. "Give Elizabeth the number. Turn off my phone, but keep it with me in case we have to go straight to a crime scene. If they can't reach me, Diana or Jones is bound to call you."

Neal took a deep breath. "You remind me of me and Kate...when you were closing in. It's a good start, Peter, but none of this would stand up against a really determined investigation, and no one knows that better than you. Maybe..." he steeled himself. "Maybe we should just—take a break."

"Do you want to?"

"You know I don't. But I don't want to be the reason you end up like Franklin."

"If Jones could hear you now..."

Involuntarily Neal looked over his shoulder and Peter cracked up.

"Peter," said Neal, "you're not taking this seriously."

Peter looked into his eyes. "I am. I swear. But I will be damned if I give you up until I have to." And maybe not then, Peter added in his head. "So we will take reasonable precautions, but we will also take reasonable risks. And you will not make any big noble gestures without 48 hours notice. Okay?"

Neal still hesitated. "I can't promise, Peter,” he said at last. “I will if I can. But when people drop a hot potato in your lap, it doesn't always come with a waiting period.”

*******************

The hot potato was already waiting for Neal back at the office. In Hughes office, to be precise, in the form of two U.S. marshals and a meeting to which Peter was pointedly not invited.

“We've received information,” said one of them, “that you and Agent Burke are having an inappropriate relationship.”

“I think,” said Neal, “that you must have an unreliable source.”

In fact, Neal was pretty sure they didn't have a source at all, other than his tracking data. Diana wouldn't, and if Jones were going to narc on them, he'd have told Hughes, not the marshals—and he'd have confronted Peter first.

“If you testify against Burke, we can offer you immunity.”

“Immunity from what?” Caffrey inquired, as if it were purely a matter of intellectual curiosity. “So far as I'm aware, there are no charges against me—except, of course, for the sentence I'm already serving under your fine supervision.”

“Suborning a federal agent,” one of the marshals suggested. 

“Sorry,” Neal said, not sounding sorry at all, “but the only thing I've tried to suborn Peter into is skinnier ties, and I regret to inform you, he didn't take the bait.”

The other marshal, who had mostly stood back and observed, weighed in at this juncture. “Speaking of your sentence,” he said, dropping each word into the room as if it were heavy. “If you testify against Burke, we can have it commuted. For real, this time.”

Caffrey had his back to the room, looking out the window. So only Hughes, at the right angle to catch the reflection, happened to see the wave of rage that crossed his face for a split second before being replaced by a mask of bored amusement, like a steel security shutter dropping.

Caffrey turned to face the marshals. “That's a very generous offer, gentlemen,” he drawled, “but I'm afraid there's nothing to tell. Agent Burke is the most honorable man I've ever met. He's never abused his power over me, unless you count making me listen to baseball on stakeouts, and I'd be happy to take a polygraph to that effect. So I'm afraid,” he gestured at his ankle, “I'll just have to get rid of this the hard way.”

Hughes stood. “I said you could ask him yourself. You have your answer,” he informed the men. “If you have proof, bring it to me. Until then, get out of my office.” 

The marshals filed out and Neal made as if to follow them. “Caffrey, stay,” said Hughes.

Hughes had never really appreciated just how good a con artist Caffrey was until right now, he realized. There was no tightness in his jaw, no pulse at his temple, no tension in his stance. He looked normally interested, maybe a bit bemused. If Hughes hadn't caught that moment of absolute anger, he'd be doubting his own insight. As it was, the only thing he doubted was whether Caffrey was as nonviolent as everyone claimed, if you pushed him too far.

If Burke were in danger, Hughes had little doubt that Caffrey would shoot his attacker without a second thought. Which was a good thing, so long as his attacker was a criminal and not, say, a U.S. marshal, or the head of the FBI's White Collar division.

That Caffrey hadn't asked him what he wanted was, Hughes thought, one of the most damning pieces of evidence there was. Instead, Caffrey pulled a sheet of blank paper from the intake tray of Hughes' printer. He sat down without waiting for permission in one of the visitors' chairs facing Hughes' desk, pulled a pen from Hughes' own pencil cup, and began covering the paper with a wide, even scrawl, before signing it at the bottom with a flourish. He slid the page across the desk to Hughes.

“What's that?” said Hughes, not picking it up.

“A confession for the Richard Prince heist last month.”

“But you couldn't have taken it,” Hughes objected, “you were with me and Peter when it happened.”

Neal nodded. “And I never would have taken a Prince,” he agreed, “he's overvalued. But only you and Peter know where I was that night. I was off anklet, undercover. I can't give you a confession for something I—allegedly—did,” he explained. “You'd feel obligated to use it. I don't want to go back to prison unless I have to. This is a last resort. If you have to send me back to jail to save Peter's career, use it, and I'll back your play. But don't let Peter know until it's too late, or he'll find a way to stop you.”

“I can send you back to prison without this, you know,” Hughes said.

“I know,” said Neal. “But Peter would try to fight it. This, he can't fight.”

Hughes picked up the paper and studied it. “You know,” he told Caffrey, “I didn't believe them. Until now.”

Neal let the silence stretch uncomfortably. “Are you asking me a question?” he finally asked.

Hughes rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on. “No,” he eventually answered. “I'm not. Get the hell out of here, Caffrey. Get back to work.”

Neal stood and headed for the door. In the doorway he turned and jerked his chin at the paper. “Hide that,” he said, “and not in the office. Peter's no fool. And just because he's an honorable man doesn't mean he's not a sneaky son of a bitch.”

Hughes pulled other paperwork over Caffrey's sheet and studied it, or pretended to. A few minutes later, a shadow darkened his doorway. “Not now, Peter,” he said, without looking up. He didn't want to see anything that he might have to testify to, later. And unlike Caffrey, when those he loved were threatened, Peter had no poker face.

“Get out of here. If you have fieldwork, do it. If not, take Caffrey home. I don't want to see either of you.” For how long, he left unspecified.

Still Peter's shadow didn't disappear. “What did he give you, Reese?” he asked.

“A love letter,” said Hughes, drily. 

*******************

It only took Neal three minutes once they reached the safety of the car to fill Peter in—minus certain key details—and confirm his worst suspicions. Take Caffrey home, Hughes had said. He hadn't specified which home, and Peter chose his own. It was a small and perhaps foolish defiance, but he couldn't regret it. If Peter was going to have a hope of clearing his head, he needed all the calm comfort of his own couch and his own dog resting a chin on his knee—and all the levelheaded counsel of his own wife.

“I think,” said Elizabeth, breaking in on a depressed and increasingly circular conversation between Peter and Neal in the Burke living room, “that you're forgetting your biggest asset.”

“What's that?” Peter asked her, relieved to be interrupted.

“Me.” 

Elizabeth sat down with Neal and Peter, abandoning dinner to its own devices. If they didn't get this settled, none of them were going to have much appetite anyway.

“The marshals think you're having an affair,” she continued. “I doubt it's occurred to them that I might know and approve. So if you set up a sting where they expect to catch you in flagrante delicto, and they find me there with you, they'll assume they were barking up the wrong tree the whole time.”

Neal looked up, his imagination caught. “I like it.”

“Of course you like it, it has a con in it,” said Peter, unfooled by his wife's careful substitution of the word “sting.”

“You like it too,” Neal pointed out, noting the returning light in Peter's eyes.

“I can see some advantages,” Peter conceded cautiously. “We control the timing.” The prospect of waiting around with their nerves on edge for the marshals to catch them in some minor slip had been the worst of it for Peter—or at least the worst he would let himself contemplate.

“The location too,” Neal offered. Peter nodded.

“If it doesn't work,” Peter decided, “we're not really any worse off than before. They just keep investigating, and they were going to do that anyway. Let's try it.”

“The question is,” said Neal, “how do we bait the trap?”

“Jones,” said Peter decisively.

“He told me he wouldn't lie for us,” Neal reminded him.

“We're not asking him to.”

Elizabeth stood. “Now that that's settled,” she said, “I have to stir the risotto or we won't have any dinner left, and planning goes better with blood sugar. Don't finish the con without me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Neal assured her.

Peter stood too and kissed her deeply. “I don't know what I'd do without you, hon,” he said.

“Something silly,” said Elizabeth.

*******************

In the end, they could come up with no better location than Peter's own home. While his blood boiled at the thought of the marshals invading his space—it was fucking Fowler all over again—no other spot made as much sense. Why would Elizabeth be at June's? Or at a hotel? They could come up with reasons, of course, but the more suspension of disbelief their plan required, the more likely it was to fail, so Elizabeth convinced Peter to grudgingly give in.

They set the date for the upcoming weekend. Any longer, and Peter thought he might chew off his fingernails...and he was afraid of what Neal might do on his own, though he didn't say that part out loud. 

Any sooner, and Neal didn't think it was plausible. “No one would go straight from a meeting where they were accused of something to doing that exact thing,” he told Peter firmly.

“You would,” said Peter, accurately.

“They don't know me like you do,” Neal replied.

Like so much else, this con—sting—would have been easier to pull off before 9/11, when Elizabeth could simply have bought air tickets that turned out to be for someone else. These days, they decided, the best plausibly deniable ruse was for her to book travel for the same dates the following year, and trust to misdirection for the rest.

Elizabeth got busy on Facebook, asking for advice on girls' spa weekends in a public post, and building a search history to match. “What a tough assignment,” she said to Peter with a grin. “I expect a quid pro quo when this is all over, mister, and it better involve a rose petal hot tub and a couples massage.”

“Rose petals?” Peter equivocated. “You sure you wouldn't rather go with one of your girlfriends?”

“Say yes, Peter,” Neal advised.

“Yes, Peter,” Peter repeated obediently, and Neal and Elle hit him with a pillow from either side.

“I knew you two were going to gang up on me sooner or later,” he grumbled.

“We've been doing it for years,” Neal pointed out.

Reluctantly, Peter drove Neal home early—and left him at the door, without even a kiss goodnight. Admittedly, he'd dragged Neal well away from all the windows at his own place, pinned him to the wall, and kissed him until they were both starving for oxygen before they left the house, but it wasn't the same.

“You know they're watching us,” Neal said.

“I know,” Peter agreed. “I just fucking hate this.”

“We don't have to like it,” said Neal, hating the irony that he was echoing Mozzie on betraying Peter, “we just have to do it.”

Neal quickly got out of the car before he could do something stupid.

******************

The next day, by prearrangement, Mozzie called Neal at the office to invite him to an exhibit opening at the Guggenheim on Saturday, so Neal could publicly decline and be evasive about why. 

Elizabeth bought an air ticket from a travel agency so she could be followed to it—amazing that they still existed in this day and age—and left it out on the counter in full view of the window, the month and the day showing and the year strategically obscured with a careless-seeming pile of mail.

Peter called Jones and Diana into his office. 

“How come the marshals are still here?” Jones asked, getting straight to the point. “Modeling's not against the law. They think Caffrey's committing animal cruelty on that cat or something?”

“I don't think so,” said Diana slowly. “They've been asking me some pretty weird questions, about you and Neal.” She met Peter's eyes. “I've been giving them some pretty dense answers. But I don't know how much longer I can go on missing the point.”

“I'm not gonna ask you to shoot your career in the foot protecting me, either of you,” Peter said simply. “Tell the truth, if it's something they have the right to ask. Tell them to get stuffed, if it isn't. But don't tell them anything that isn't true. If I'm going down for this, it's worth it. But I'm not taking you with me. Understand?”

“Understood,” said Jones, with a firm nod. 

Diana looked rebellious, but Peter caught her eye and held it. “That's an order, Diana. If Neal and I get stuck down in the Cave,” or on the street, or in jail, he thought, but didn't say, “someone has to stay here who knows what they're doing.”

“...fine,” she subsided.

“At least Elizabeth is going away,” he said, planting the hook where he hoped it would be less obtrusive. “Hopefully this will all be over one way or another before she comes back.”

The two turned to file out of the office. Jones stopped in the doorway. “Worth it, huh?” he asked Peter.

“Yeah,” Peter told him simply. What else was there to say? 

But Jones surprised him. “You might wanna tell Caffrey that.”

***********************

Neal and Peter had to skip their usual Tuesday date—Peter drank too much beer alone on the couch, and when Elle came back from book club she took one look at him and pulled his head in to cradle against her breast. 

“I'm sorry, hon,” he said. “I don't mean to let this get in the way of us.”

“Peter,” said Elizabeth, “it's not. When you're sad and scared, I want you to come to me. That's not getting in the way of us. That is us.”

“You're the best wife ever,” Peter told her.

“Remember that,” she told him, “when you see how much the spa costs.” 

By Friday Peter was just about jumping out of his skin from being constantly near Neal and not able to touch him—well, only the usual shoulder clasps, arm grips, and back claps he'd always done, and that was worse than nothing. If this was how Neal had felt every day before Peter finally got a clue, Peter was amazed all over again that Neal hadn't gone over the wall out of sheer frustration. 

The day crawled. The marshals were still hanging around the office, and the other agents were giving them sideways looks, wondering what the hell was going on. Hughes was still avoiding them. No one was on their A game, and Peter didn't even have the heart to yell at them for it. The only reason they got anything done at all is that some criminals obviously weren't on their A game either. They cleared up an insider trading scandal more or less in spite of themselves. Peter decided to quit while they were only marginally behind, and sent them all home early.

Elizabeth made a big, noticeable exit out the front door, with suitcases—full of old clothes and linens that she dropped off at Goodwill once she was sure they weren't actually tailing her. Then, guided by Mozzie, she made a small and hopefully unnoticed re-entrance by the back, timed to be covered by the distraction of Peter and Neal's arrival at the front door.

Dinner was tense, and complicated by the fact that only two bodies could show silhouetted against the curtains at any one time, neither of which could be much shorter than the other or have noticeable breasts or long hair. If they were going to be under surveillance on a regular basis, Peter decided, he was investing in blackout material. He made Elle sit down and he and Neal cooked and fetched her food, and she made jokes about waiter service, but none of them really laughed.

They tried to watch a movie, but when _48 Hours_ didn't even make them smile, Elizabeth figured it was time to give up. And as for playing a game, forget it. Neal was too wound up to even cheat, and for Peter, catching Neal at it was most of the fun.

At 9:30, Elizabeth faked a yawn. “I'm going to bed,” she said, hoping to give Neal and Peter some alone time before they had to worry about the marshals' staging their raid. But Neal and Peter were both shaking their heads. “They need to see two people go up together,” Neal explained. And two heat signatures in the bed, though he didn't really think they would be that thorough. “Turn out the lights when you go, and I'll make up the pull out couch in the dark.”

“Do you want to stay up a little longer?” she asked Peter. She kind of hated the idea of leaving Neal alone down here for hours to worry. But Peter shook his head. “Might as well get some sleep if we can.”

Cat burglar or not, Neal barked his shins twice trying to change and set up the pull out couch in the dark. And once he was in it, the bar digging into his back, he had trouble falling asleep – and not only because it was hours before his usual bed time. He could practically feel the marshals outside on stakeout. He wondered if either of them were eating deviled ham, or listening to a ball game. It took a real effort of will not to twitch aside the curtains to look. 

Peter's wasn't a highly trafficked street, but the occasional lights still went by on the ceiling. Neal didn't even dare look at his phone, lest the light alert someone; he wondered if he was just going to lie there awake for hours until the marshals burst in. Satchmo crawled into bed with him; it was kind of pathetic, but the big warm lump of dog was surprisingly comforting, especially the rhythmic thump of a tail across his calf. Eventually, Neal calmed himself by running through every safe cracking technique he knew in his head. He fell asleep between boroscope and thermal lance.

******************

“U.S. Marshals!” the front door burst inward—they'd accepted having to replace it as a probable casualty of this plan—and Neal practically fell off the pull out couch. 

Despite knowing this was coming, intellectually, he didn't have to feign surprise—or alarm. He'd been woken from an anxiety dream about being chased by Hughes and, weirdly, Mozzie through the FBI headquarters, where he kept finding strange rooms he'd never heard of, like the one filled with butter. 

The lights came on, all at once, making Neal squint. There were quite a lot of guns pointed at him, which he thought was overkill—even if they'd caught Peter buried balls-deep in Neal's ass, it wasn't a shooting offense. 

“Hands up!” one of them yelled, and Neal obediently held them up while still in sitting up in bed. 

“Can I get up?” he asked. 

The man considered for a moment, then nodded. “Slowly. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

Neal carefully crawled off the pull out sofa, keeping his hands in sight at all times. He was wearing more than he usually slept in, sweat pants and a t-shirt—they'd decided no bare chests, to keep the sexy visuals to a minimum—but they could see the anklet, and he still felt naked.

“Where's Burke?” The marshal demanded. 

“Upstairs, of course,” Neal looked at the man as if he'd grown a second head.  
'  
“Right here,” Peter answered over him from the top of the stairs. 

He was wearing pale blue cotton button down pajamas, but he was armed, something they'd hotly debated. Neal felt there was too much chance of some marshal losing their head if they saw Peter's weapon pointed at them, but Peter won the day by arguing that if a federal agent didn't bring his gun to what he thought was a home invasion, they'd smell a rat.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Peter demanded.

“U.S. Marshals! Drop the weapon!” the man bellowed. It was a 20 foot wide townhouse, for Christ's sake, Neal didn't know why they couldn't just talk in a normal voice. For sure they were waking up the neighbors.

Peter didn't actually drop the weapon, but he did lower it. “Do you have a warrant?”

“Honey? Is everything okay?” Elle's voice came clear as day from the top floor—she'd waited for a lull to make sure no one could miss it, and Neal wanted to kiss her for it.

“It's not burglars, hon. It's the marshals. I don't know what the fuck is going on here, but you're safe. Just stay in bed. I'll get to the bottom of it.” Peter called back up the stairs.

As they'd planned, Elizabeth ignored this advice and followed him downstairs, in a thick plaid flannel nightgown that just screamed “The Waltons.” Neal thought she might have overdone it with the costuming a bit, but he had to admit, she was right, just her presence lowered the emotional temperature at least 20 degrees. Guns were sheepishly holstered or in Peter's case, left on the coffee table. 

“Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Burke. We thought you were away.”

Elizabeth looked at him with wide, bewildered eyes. “Is that a crime?”

“Of course not, ma'am,” the marshal said comfortingly. “We thought—” he shot a poisonous glance at Neal and Peter “—that someone might have been taking advantage of your absence.”

Elizabeth's forehead crinkled. “We have an alarm system,” she told the marshal, “and it's really a very safe neighborhood these days. Besides,” she added practically, “most people don't choose to rob an FBI agent. We get a break on our insurance and everything.”

“We weren't thinking of that kind of—offense, ma'am,” the marshal hedged uncomfortably.

Elizabeth looked at him blankly. “I'm pretty sure if Neal was planning to return to a life of crime, he wouldn't do it from Peter's living room,” she told the marshal. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Dan,” the lead marshal said sheepishly.

“Well, Dan,” said Elizabeth, “since you're all here and we're all up now, how about I make some cocoa and we all sit down and talk about it, whatever it is? You must be freezing. I know Peter always comes home chilled from stakeouts at this time of year.”

“We couldn't trouble you, ma'am,” said his partner.

“Oh it's no trouble, boys,” said Elizabeth blithely. “Come on in and take a seat.”

With the two marshalls seated at the table—their more heavily armed backup lurked awkwardly in the front hall, but Elizabeth insisted on taking mugs of cocoa to them, too—Dan finally showed Peter his warrant. Elle, who had wormed out of the other one that he went by “Archie,” asked “so what's this all about, anyway?”

While the marshalls shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, Neal decided that was his cue. “They think Peter is taking advantage of me.”

Elizabeth stared at him blankly. “Isn't that the point?”

Neal smothered a chortle. Damn, she was good.

“Not... professionally,” Peter added, looking realistically embarrassed. He probably was, too.

“He walks Satchmo sometimes,” Elle admitted. She turned to Neal. “Where is he, anyway?” For the first time, the look she turned on the marshals was stern. “You didn't let him out, did you?”

Neal shook his head reassuringly. “He ran away when they broke in. He's probably hiding under the sofabed.”

Neal decided they'd played dumb long enough. “They think we're having an affair, Elle,” he explained gently.

“You and me?!?”

“Me and Peter.”

Neal totally understood why Peter had married Elizabeth. She did the best possible thing she could have done—she burst out laughing. It started to die down, when the sight of the marshals' flummoxed faces started her off again.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized. “It's just, you don't know Peter, do you? It took him three weeks to ask me out, and I literally had to hold up a sign.”

“There are pictures,” Neal confirmed. “I've seen them.”

“I've never seen a man more grateful to give up dating. He can't even flirt!”

“I've seen him tell a woman she looked thirsty,” Neal chimed in, as corroboration.

“When?” Elle demanded.

“It was an undercover operation, honey,” Peter said soothingly.

“And he's terrified of me,” Elizabeth added to the marshals.

“I wouldn't say terrified,” Peter temporized.

“That's because you know better,” Elizabeth informed him.

“Forgive me,” said Archie, “but with the power he has over Caffrey, he wouldn't have to flirt. He could just... order him to.”

Neal ignored the treacherous warmth that spread through his groin at that. If there was one thing he could not afford right now, it was an erection. Firmly he concentrated on thoughts of Hughes and Jones together until it subsided.

“I know you don't know Peter well enough to know he wouldn't take advantage of his power like that,” said Elizabeth, visibly holding on to her temper, “but have you talked to his employees? Have you talked to Neal, for god's sake? If Peter were raping him—call a spade a spade, gentlemen—I seriously doubt he'd be volunteering for sleepovers at our place.”

“I tried to tell them,” Neal informed Elizabeth.

“Caffrey could have started it,” Archie contributed. 

“Neal can certainly flirt,” Elle admitted, “but he's been on-again, off-again with a redhead for a while now. A female redhead,” she added.

“Sara Ellis,” Dan confirmed. “We know.”

“And even if Neal would risk that, _and_ my marriage—” Elle's tone made it obvious that Neal had better not risk her marriage or he'd regret it—“I can't see him risking his freedom,” Elizabeth bottom lined it for the marshals. “I'm sorry, I don't buy it. There's just no way either of these men would so much as make a pass at the other. And I know them better than anyone. Neal's like family to us.” She took Peter's hand. “I don't know who's been misleading you, gentlemen, but you're wasting your time here.”

Dan and Archie exchanged glances. “I guess we are,” he admitted. “Sorry to have bothered you, ma'am. Burke.” He pointedly did not include Caffrey in the apology. “Just doing our jobs.”

“Of course,” Peter made himself say. “If you don't mind, though, I'd like to get some sleep tonight.”

********************

When the marshals finally left, Peter and Elizabeth went back upstairs. Neal gathered up the empty and half-empty cocoa mugs, on auto-pilot, and piled them into the sink. He knew he was shambling inefficiently around the living room doing tasks that could perfectly well wait till the morning, but he couldn't quite bring himself to go back and lie down on the pull out couch in the living room. It felt exposed, after all the marshals had crowded around it, and anyway he was too keyed up to sleep.

A creak on the stairs alerted him. He looked up, and there was Elizabeth, still in the deliberately wholesome flannel nightgown she'd chosen to impress their uninvited visitors.

“Come to bed, Neal,” she said.

“Elizabeth, I—” Neal trailed off.

“You don't want to reject me, but it's three in the morning and you're still shaking with relief and adrenaline and you don't think you're up for any kind of sex right now, let alone our first threesome?”

“Something like that,” Neal said eloquently.

“Relax, Neal. I didn't say come have sex. I said come to bed. Peter needs to hold you right now, but he doesn't want to leave me alone.”

“...Oh,” said Neal, feeling foolish and relieved at once. He followed her back up the stairs to their bedroom.

Peter looked up and smiled when Neal entered. “Hey,” he said softly, and rolled over to make room. “Elizabeth said I was being an idiot again. So she fixed it.”

Neal climbed into bed next to Peter. “She does that a lot.”

Elizabeth climbed in on Peter's other side. “Somebody has to. Besides,” she said to Neal over Peter's broad chest, “we can always have a threesome in the morning.”

Ignoring the dropped jaws on both men's faces, she blithely turned off her bedside lamp.

In the darkness, Peter wrapped his arms around Neal. Neal's shaking got briefly worse as he let his self-control go at last and then, thankfully, started to subside. “I'm here,” Peter said softly into his ear. “I'm right here.”

Neal was not up to explaining that it wasn't Peter being here that he doubted. Peter was always here, would always be here. It was Neal being here—in Elizabeth's bed, with Peter, at the Bureau, in the city, not in jail—that he was having a hard time believing in.

“Peter,” he said instead. “Don't let go.”

“Not gonna,” said Peter, kissing the soft skin behind Neal's ear. “Never do.”

From the darkness behind Peter, Elle's sleepy voice agreed. “He never does.”

Elizabeth reached over Peter. She gave Neal a reassuring pat, before wrapping her arm around Peter's waist. And then her breath evened out into tiny, adorable snoring.

Neal's own breathing started to slow at last. There was something so convincing about snoring. No one ever snored in dreams. The mattress springs creaked and a heavy weight settled onto Neal's feet—Satchmo had joined them.

“Is he allowed on the bed?” Neal whispered. 

“No,” Peter whispered back, making zero attempts to dislodge the golden retriever.

“It's really warm in the middle,” Peter mentioned after a minute.

“Your life is so hard,” said Neal. “Stick your feet out of the covers. Unless you want to switch places.”

“Nah,” said Peter. “I'm good.”

************************

Peter woke—sort of—to Elizabeth's mouth on his cock and smiled without opening his eyes. He was still feeling languorously sleepy, but he liked it when Elle woke up feeling frisky. And then he felt a second tongue eagerly lapping his balls while Elle's was thoroughly engaged in teasing the head of his half-hard dick. 

For one disoriented moment he thought “fuck—Satchmo” but thank god he didn't actually say it, because when he reached down to push Satch away his hand encountered Neal's hair instead. Right, Neal, in their bed, the marshals, Elizabeth saying they could have a threesome in the morning, guess she wasn't joking after all...

Peter was suddenly fully awake—and fully hard. He knew what those little frustrated mewlings Caffrey was making meant—he couldn't quite reach what he wanted. 

“Hon,” he said, stroking Elizabeth's hair. 

Her eyes twinkled up at him and she pulled back long enough to lilt “good morning, hon.”

Peter could not resist booping her on the nose, because she was rampantly adorable with her mischievous face on. 

“Pretty good so far,” he agreed, mock-seriously. “C'n I turn over? Caffrey wants something.”

“Oh, well, okay,” Elle agreed. “Since it's for Neal.”

Peter rolled onto his side. He felt a wet cloth slide between his cheeks—how the hell Neal had managed to get up and get it without waking him was a mystery for another day. Then again, either Neal and Elle had developed telepathy overnight or there had been a lot he'd slept through, this morning. 

The cool cloth was replaced with Caffrey's warm tongue and Peter stopped being able to think in sentences. And then Elle took his cock deep into her mouth, and Peter stopped being able to words. His hips could not decide if they wanted to press forward or back, but that didn't seem to matter because Caffrey's tongue was relentless, delving deeper no matter how far he thrust forward into Elizabeth's mouth, and Elle was just as eager, diving after him as he squirmed back into Caffrey's kiss.

It's funny how your biggest fears become your biggest turn-ons. The thing that made Peter groan aloud was noticing that, across his hip, Neal and Elle were holding hands. 

It was all too much, too gentle, too implacable. Peter needed something to hold onto. He gripped Neal by the nape of the neck and forced him closer, and was rewarded with a smothered whimper. It was an effort not to do the same to Elle, but they didn't play that way, so Peter made a fist in the covers, and came.

Elizabeth pulled back, which surprised Peter—she wasn't usually shy about swallowing—until she explained “I thought Neal might want some.” 

“You,” Neal informed her as he crawled up the bed to spoon behind Peter, “are a very considerate hostess.” And he leaned over Peter's shoulder to lap his cum from her collarbone.

Peter could feel Neal's erection nestled in the crack of his ass. He could smell Elle's arousal.

“You know,” he suggested. “It's gonna be a while before I can go again. You two could start without me.”

Elle and Neal exchanged a look. It was completely opaque to Peter, but apparently it meant something to them, because they both looked back at him like it was settled. 

“Let's make breakfast,” said Elle.

“And after,” said Neal, as if he were just completing her sentence, “when you're ready, one of us will ride your cock and the other one will sit on your face.”

Elizabeth nodded as if everyone knew that were the only sensible thing to do after breakfast.

“Which is which?” Peter asked in spite of himself.

Neal and Elle exchanged another one of those unreadable looks.

“You pick,” said Elle. 

“You two,” Peter informed them both, “are trying to kill me.” 

“Don't be a wimp,” Neal said, “all you have to do is lie there. We'll do all the work.”

“Besides, hon,” added Elizabeth earnestly, “this is cardio.”

So the three of them washed up and pulled on a few more layers and padded downstairs, and soon Peter was mixing up his patented French toast, Neal was making the coffee and setting the table, and Elle was stirring melted chocolate in a double boiler and feeding it to Neal on a strawberry to see if it was done yet. 

“I dunno,” Neal said. “I think I need another to be sure.”

Peter came up behind them and caught Neal by the wrist. “Stop stealing my strawberries,” he said to Neal, and Neal turned and gave him a chocolaty kiss.

“How is this my life?” Peter wondered aloud.

Elle snuggled in on his other side. “You must have done something good,” she suggested.

“Like show a master criminal the error of his ways?” suggested Caffrey teasingly.

“Something like that,” agreed Elizabeth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to Dotfic for beta reading! 
> 
> White Collar was created by Jeff Eastin and aired on the USA network. No profit has been or will be generated by this transformative work.


End file.
